West of the Dark, East of the Sun
by Marchwriter
Summary: Determined to clear Ithilien of the enemy, Faramir is forced to decide the fate of a stranger trespassing in Gondor's realm.
1. Chapter 1

The banner of the Steward snapped in the wind as two riders drew up in the Court of the Fountain and dismounted with muffled groans.

"A hot bath and a good book will not go amiss tonight," Faramir said, hobbling to a seat to knead a cramp out of his thigh.

"Ah, brother mine, there are greater cures for stiff legs than hot water," Boromir said, tugging off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. He stretched luxuriously, the tips of his fingers brushing the lowest and deadest branches of the White Tree. "Besides, the men wish to fete us under the table tonight, so your book will have to wait."

"I will leave the pomp and ceremony to you and gladly — you are fairer of speech than I could ever be. And less modest." He looked up and grinned.

"Knave!" Boromir yoked an arm around his neck in friendly torment. "Were I not your brother as well as your captain, I would buck and gag you for such talk."

His hold loosened enough for Faramir to shake himself free. "Alas. Your due chastisement will have to wait. You know he does not like to be kept waiting."

A chill fell over Faramir.

He sighed and heaved himself up, following his brother up the broad steps.

"I know it."

As they stepped into the shadow of the White Tower, Boromir gave him an all-too-knowing look. "You did well on the field. Father will see that."

"I doubt that," Faramir muttered, too low for Boromir to hear as the great doors creaked open to admit them.

* * *

The air inside the hall was chill and slightly dank. The doors thumped closed behind them, obliterating the noise of the levels below.

Faramir straightened his shoulders and kept pace beside Boromir, comforted by the easy matching of their steps and swing of their arms.

As they halted beside the dais stair, their father rose from his place on the black throne, his arms thrown wide.

"My sons. Home from the hills!"

He enfolded Boromir first and longest in his arms then Faramir.

"It is about time and past time," he said, his face as remote as the carven figures that flanked the hall. "I have waited long for your report."

"Forgive our tardiness, Father," Boromir said, clasping the hand still resting on his shoulder. "It could not be helped."

Over dinner, they spoke of small things at first. It was not often they sat down to a meal together. A houseful of men had other matters to occupy them.

"The keep of Cair Andros, my lord, is woefully under-manned," Faramir was saying. "Thrice they have requested a strengthening of the garrison."

"Gondor's knights are needed in the South, not in a derelict keep where they will squander their time and our coin fighting off little more than gulls."

"There are rumors that orcs are moving through the no-man's land beneath the Marshes."

"And are you a fishwife that you heed such rumors without proof of sight?"

"I—"

"The threat is in the South. That is where we must head off the enemy."

Boromir cast Faramir a warning look as he opened his mouth to argue. "Truly, Father, regaining the port of Umbar would be strategically advantageous. But Faramir is not wrong. For too long we have neglected the northern and eastern marches. Not since the days of our great-grandfather has—"

"I do remember our history, my son," Denethor said but with distinct coolness that said the matter was closed. "Not since the days of Turgon, you would say, has the watch been properly manned at Cair Andros."

"It could use a captain, proven in courage and wisdom," Boromir insisted. He cast a small, teasing smile across the table. "With perhaps more modesty than most."

"I take it you are this…modest…captain," Denethor said.

Faramir straightened his shoulders under that gaze. "I shall accept whatever ruling my lord sees fit to bestow."

Denethor grunted around his fork. "Will you indeed? I had thought you would remain in the city a time. A man may learn much regarding the proper attributes of a soldier and knight: valor without vainglory, sacrifice without selfishness, allegiance to family and a just cause…"

"Drunkenness and debauchery number amongst soldiers' deeds as well. Shall I learn those?" Faramir inquired lightly.

Boromir scowled at him.

"I would welcome a tale of debauchery or two to your name," Denethor said. "Better that than what is currently bandied about the barracks. Oh, yes, my son, I guess more than you know. Your father has eyes and ears everywhere."

A heavy silence fell around the table.

Faramir let his fork clatter beside his plate, his appetite quite vanquished. "Glad I am that you have a paragon then for a firstborn, Father. You need not concern yourself over me." His voice, at least, was steady.

"Very well. You may have your appointment. But do not crawl to me if you rue it."

Denethor scraped back his chair and left the table, leaving the two brothers gazing at each other ruefully.

"Well. That went well," Boromir said, helping himself to more wine.

* * *

Bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, Faramir finished cinching his horse's girth and shrugged his cloak up about his neck to stave off the early chill. The fountain chattered in muted tones.

"I would rather you were not going alone," Boromir said, tugging him into a tight embrace. "Travel safe, brother."

Faramir had not the heart to tell him that he was always alone. Now, he would merely be solitary — which suited him just fine. (Their father was conspicuous only by his absence.)

"I will," he said instead, clasping his brother's strong shoulder. "If worse comes to worse, I shall beg you to come rescue me."

"As long as it doesn't involve me sending another purse of gold down to the Umbar docks—"

"Yes, yes. Thank you for that. Goodbye."

Once the gates of Gondor were safely out of sight, he breathed easier and urged his mount into a steady trot.

* * *

He made good time, riding north with the sun on his right shoulder, the river on his left.

He met no one and nothing on the road. Few of Gondor's folk lived this far north of the city, and those who had not fled Ithilien entirely remained farther to the south of it, evading the enemy's roads and that perilous land just south of the marshes.

As evening fell, thickening clouds scuttered across the moon, and a cold wind arose from the East.

The night was very still, and absent the usual scurryings and scuttlings of creatures. With only the creak of harness and branch and the jingle of falling water for company, Faramir sang quietly to himself for a while, but the oppressiveness behind the silence stopped his voice before too long.

At a bend in the road, where it forked and climbed down towards the ford of Cair Andros one way and puttered out into a dirt lane towards the marshes, he spotted a nasty twist of wire half-concealed under a clump of leaves. His horse almost put a foot in it before Faramir wrenched him aside.

No Ithilien ranger set such evil-looking snares.

The undergrowth too was trampled in places: branches torn off, vegetation uprooted. The earth groaned under such violence.

Faramir walked carefully to the side of the path, fingertips searching over the grass until they found a half-moon shape deep in the dirt. It was an hobnailed boot or he was no ranger.

Orcs had been and gone not long enough for his liking.

Faramir remounted, eager now to reach Cair Andros the sooner. But his horse refused his urging, his ears going farther and farther back as if whatever he read in the earth or the wind that his master could not displeased and alarmed him.

A branch creaked, and something hissed…It did not sound like wind in the leaves…though Faramir, straining with all his senses, could not pinpoint where the noise had come from.

Something — a dark, stooping something — streaked out of the underbrush, almost under the horse's hooves.

He didn't have time to go for his sword or bow. His horse heaved under him, rearing onto its hind legs with a startled neigh, and dumped him from the saddle.

The fall knocked the breath from his lungs, and stunned, his body slid sideways, the earth sloping away beneath him.

Unknowingly, he had come to a part of the path where it dropped towards the river below in a sharp fall.

His hands scrabbled for purchase, but root, branch and grass whipped through his fingers faster than he could hold on, his weight dragging him down in an ever-quickening slide.

The world turned over, once, twice. On the third, something — a rock or root — caught him on the side of the head, and hurtled him into a blackness so complete that if the bottom came, he was mercilessly too senseless to feel it.


	2. Chapter 2

The world swam back into focus by degrees.

A lattice of branches, very black and sharp, bobbed overhead. The moonlight between them cast a splintering pain through his head. When he reached up to touch his temple, his fingers came away wet and sticky.

Cautiously, he rolled to his knees, his stomach giving an uncomfortable lurch. He remained bent over for a long minute, weighing the merits of being sick or not. Eventually, the nausea eased enough for him to sit up.

He could not hear or see his horse. All his gear had been tied to the saddle, including his weapons. Feeling naked and shaky, he staggered to his feet and almost sank to his knees again when the pain in his head gave a particularly vicious throb.

None knew that he was coming. They would not know to seek for him.

While he did not relish walking the rest of the way to Cair Andros, the thought of passing out in a ditch with the threat of the enemy so nearby brought him to standing and slowly, slowly, beginning to walk. At least he would not have to climb the ridge again since the path sloped down to the river anyway.

He had not gone far when the faint scrape of steel on leather reached his ears - to a man trained in battle, the sound of a sword unsheathing was unmistakable.

Faramir stopped short, aware almost at once of a dark figure standing under the trees on his right.

For a span of heartbeats that thudded too loud and too long, they stared at one another.

"Name yourself, friend or foe," the shadow-shape demanded. The voice at any rate did not sound like an orc. Though that was small comfort.

"I am a man of Gondor."

"You are far from civil lands, man of Gondor. What brings you into the wild? And on foot too?"

"My business is my own as is yours, stranger." The bravado almost made it into his voice, but he was trembling with exhaustion and even a man of Gondor could not help admitting - even to himself - a little fear in that instance. "My horse took fright and fled."

"Took fright at what?"

It was a strange question. "I…do not know. I took it for some thin-bred orc. A gangrel creature of theirs." He swayed. "If you are theirs as well, I would prefer you either slay me swiftly or let me sit. I am terribly weary."

He did not wait for permission before sinking onto a patch of grass on the side of the road.

The man was silent for a beat or two, only the gleam of his sword and a pair of eyes visible under the trees.

"I suppose I should slay you," he mused. "I have already lingered far longer in speech than is wise for either of us."

"Well." Faramir said after another silence. "You are taking your time of it."

"Fortunately for you, the enemy of the One Enemy is my friend," came the rejoinder.

The next moment came the sound of a sword sheathing, and he was stooping over Faramir.

"You are hurt."

Rough hands brushed his scalp, and a burning fire raced across his hairline.

"My apologies. My hands once were softer."

He proffered a questionably clean kerchief for Faramir to staunch the wound with.

"What is your name?" Faramir asked, pressing the clout to his head.

"I am a man of the North, of the Dúnedain."

Faramir allowed the man to pull him to his feet, abetting his rather precarious balance with a grip on the man's broad shoulder. "Thank goodness you are a sturdy fellow, Dúnadan."

"Sturdy I may be but not unwearied. Speak less, walk more."

They made agonizing progress along the road for Faramir could go only slowly and the river-road was overgrown and nearly overcome by brush in many places.

The Dúnadan made no mention of their pace but kept looking back, uneasy as a hart who hears the hounds behind him. But he said nothing to Faramir of what he was doing in this deserted part of the country, and Faramir was much too engrossed in placing one foot in front of the other to wonder.

The hours passed, interminable in their march until Faramir was beyond weary.

Every bit of strength was used up, and the only reason he did not collapse was the knowledge that if he stopped, he would not start, and the man he was leaning on. As reluctant as he'd been to take him on, his rescuer would not let him lie down or leave him.

At first, he thought the pale, grey light on the branches was his vision going at last with sheer pain and exhaustion.

"Dawn," his companion croaked, his profile haggard in the light. But he smiled, and the brightness behind it almost made Faramir forget his weariness. "Well, there's a bit of hope, at least."

Hope, indeed.

Just across the ford, the ragged face of the Cair Andros keep gazed at them across the river. To Faramir, it looked more beautiful than a queen.

* * *

Faramir woke on a pallet in a room as luxurious as soldiers' quarters could be.

It was actually a wide common hall shared by the garrison for eating, sleeping, and any other manner of activities with a table and long benches leaning against one wall. A hearth, already hot and crackling, made up three-quarters of the other. Stone flags and rushes covered the floor. There were no windows at this level.

Cair Andros, defender of Anorien and the river, more than a day's ride from Minas Tirith and the only bastion on the Anduin shy of the Argonath — even now, despite the thickness of the walls, the river murmured a continuing, soothing tone.

Faramir smiled. He was home.

He eased himself up, relieved when his head did not ache so fiercely.

A door at the far end of the hall swung open, bringing with it a flash of weak sunshine and the smell of bay and cypress.

"Welcome back, sir!" His adjutant, a cheerful and ruddy-faced youth with a length of untidy fallow hair flung up his arm in salute. "You know, I rather think the city is an unhealthy place for you, sir. It seems each time you go, you return in more trouble than when you left."

"Noted, you cheeky monkey," Faramir said, pressing his lips tight together to repress a smile. "I trust you've been staying out of trouble, Elboril."

"Bored to tears more like." Elboril went to the fire and swung a kettle over the hearth. He picked up a towel and twisted it beneath his fingers with uncharacteristic nervousness. "Captain, sir, now that you're back, I wondered if we might talk…"

Faramir could already see the request coming. The one Elboril always asked, the one his captain was always the most reluctant to grant. "I said we would talk after the summer—"

"It is turning to autumn now, and I've been training hard with Malthen—even he admits my progress with the sword. Besides, you need more men in the field."

He wasn't wrong.

"You are young yet," Faramir said.

"You said your own self you were younger than I when you first saw battle," Elboril insisted.

"And that is why I tell you are young yet," Faramir said.

Elboril had the high heart of his Rohirric kin—and their recklessness in equal measure. Though it was not the answer he desired, a few years more would give him the sense he needed to survive a battlefield. Better Elboril feel thwarted now than for his father and Faramir to weep over an alfirin-covered grave.

Elboril tugged his forelock in decidedly Rohirric irritation but did not argue further. "What news from the Lord Steward?"

Faramir sighed and rubbed his eyes. His head was aching again.

"As bad as all that?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to make due with me."

"There are worse things, I suppose." Despite his tone, the stiffness went out of his shoulders. "How is your head?"

"It aches some. To be expected I suppose."

"Anborn left some leaves for a tincture…" Elboril hastened to put the kettle on and sort bits of willowbank and terebinth with brisk and slightly-too-conscientious efficiency.

"Never mind me," Faramir said. "How are things here?"

"We have provisions and plenty of water, so that's all to the good at least," Elboril said over his shoulder. "But Mablung's patrol said they saw lights on the far shore - in noman's land. Lights that burned red and many. The enemy is out on the plain, and they don't seem to care who knows it."

Faramir shut his eyes. It seemed he had come in the nick of time —and too late. "Very well. Dispatch Diriel's patrol to relieve them. I would know of any threat that moves."

"Yes, sir." He handed Faramir a steaming mug. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No. Thank you. However, I did not arrive alone. My companion…?"

"He's still here. He slept outside under the garth wall, said he had no liking for stone floors when earth would do," Elboril said in a tone that suggested he rather doubted the man's sanity. "I don't know his face. Is he new to the appointment? Bit dour, if you ask me. Keeps to himself, like."

"Yes," Faramir said with an uncomfortable twinge.

He did not quite know why he didn't tell Elboril the truth — that the man was as much a stranger to him. But some part of him wanted answers first.

"He gave over his gear readily enough," Elboril said, gesturing to some objects laid out on the table.

There was a leather wallet, weather stained and empty, a waterskin, a flask, a wooden box of assorted herbs, gut and needle, a cloak that served as blanket and bedding both. And a cloak pin curiously wrought in the shape of an eagle with spread wings.

"Little enough gear for a man traveling," Faramir said.

But the most interesting was the relic of a sheath from which he drew a relic of a weapon. Astonished at its lightness, he found it halved a foot below the hilt.

"Not much of a weapon," Elboril said. "Not for the perils in this land, at least."

"Indeed," Faramir said, looking closely at the blade. "This is old steel. Though well-cared for." Something niggled at the back of his mind. Something half-familiar and half-known…but it slipped away before he could seize it.

"Sir?" He'd been silent too long. Elboril was watching him.

Faramir laid the weapon down. "You may go, Elboril."

The young man inclined his head and turned on his heel, the very picture of military efficiency. It was true; he was young. But courage long-denied could turn too easily to bitterness.

He was going to regret this. "Elboril."

"Sir?"

"Go fetch your gear. Tell Diriel, you are her new scout. Scouting, only, mind you. Do not engage."

"Yes, sir!" Elboril whooped and bolted from the room, Faramir wincing as the door slammed shut.

* * *

It took him rather longer than he would have liked to admit to suss out where the man had sequestered himself.

His rescuer was sitting alone between the battlements, looking north, upstream of the Anduin, towards the bleak plains of no-man's land. He did not turn at Faramir's greeting.

"The view from the other side is better," Faramir called up to the south wall. "On a clear day, you can see the White Tower of Minas Tirith."

"I have seen it before."

For the first time, Faramir beheld him in the light. He was garbed in ragged greens and browns, not unlike the Rangers of Ithilien, though his boots were worn almost through, and the stitching had pulled away from the sole in several places. His face was darker than the fair men of Gondor, sun-burned and weatherbeaten by long weeks outdoors. Something in his strong features put Faramir in mind of his brother, Boromir, though he could not think why. The two were as apart in manner and appearance as it was possible for two men to be. Yet in his arms and shoulders, Faramir saw a wiry strength, like his own, and an intelligent expression behind his eyes that spoke of wisdom and some secret sorrow.

"You have been to Gondor before?"

"Before you were born."

Faramir glanced at him again, appraisingly. There was no grey in his hair and only a few lines about his mouth. "You cannot be much my elder."

"Looks can be deceiving, Captain Faramir." At Faramir's quizzical look, he added. "Your men speak highly of you."

"Well, they are…terribly meddlesome." Casting about for another subject, he asked. "What brings you to Gondor?"

"An unpleasant errand."

Faramir waited for elaboration but when none came, he said. "Well, I hope you will find some ease here. Though we have but rough comfort to offer."

"It is considerable luxury compared to some of the places in which I have encamped. Your offer is appreciated. But I shall not be lingering. Now, that I have delivered you, I must depart with all haste."

"I cannot in good conscience leave you to the mercy of the wild with the enemy nearly encamped upon our walls."

"It would not be the first time."

Faramir winced inwardly. Now for the awkward part. "I'm afraid I must insist. I cannot allow you to leave." He cringed even as he spoke. The Dúnadan did not strike him as a man who suffered many impositions against his will.

"Oh?"

"You have looked on our fortifications, and you were traveling in our lands, unbidden and unchallenged. Under our Law, any trespasser's life is thus forfeit," Faramir intoned, growing increasingly uncomfortable under the steady, inscrutable stare of those eyes.

"But for my 'trespassing,' you would have spent a night on the cold ground, fodder for whatever dark thing might creep out of the woods."

Warmth suffused Faramir's face. "I have not forgotten the debt I owe. Yet I am bound by the Law of the Steward. None who pass unbidden through his lands may depart without his judgement. If you would leave in haste, it would behoove you to tell me why you are here."

"It is worth more than your life to know that."

Turning aside from the man's disquieting eyes, Faramir gazed down the sharp slope of the isle as if mesmerized by the tumult of the river below.

"Well. You have as little cause to trust me as I you after all."

He drew from the folds of his cloak a long-stemmed pipe and a pouch of tobacco. "Be that as it may, there is no reason you must be kept bereft of all comforts."

The man smiled the first genuine smile Faramir had seen. It made his grave face brighten for a fraction like sun darting from behind a cloud.

"I thought this lost in last night's scramble."

In the slightly-brokered atmosphere, the Dúnadan tamped and lit his pipe.

"I trust you are mending?" he asked around a mouthful of smoke. The tobacco burned with a sweet and tranquil scent and wreathed his brow in a grey-green crown that reminded Faramir uncannily of the wizard Mithrandir in his infrequent visits to Gondor's holdings.

"I am," Faramir said. "I am sorry that it must be thus. Under different circumstances, I rather think you and I might have been friends."

"I have few enough of those." The Dúnadan blew a smoke ring towards the trees on the other side. It held its shape for a long time before the wind dispersed it. "Very well. I shall await your judgement. But not too long."

* * *

In the days to follow, it became their custom to meet on the battlements then to wander a circuit around the isle under the olive trees.

In the Dúnadan, Faramir found a surprising wealth of knowledge on every subject from the most obscure tidbits of herblore to weighty discussions on the peerage and pageantry of Gondor.

Only on two subjects would he not speak — his purpose or his heart.

And though Faramir wondered, he did not press. The more they spoke together, the more he found himself admiring the man, almost against his will.

"I imagine you are eager to return to your kin in the North," he ventured once for reasons he did not wish to examine too closely. "Some fair lady must await you…"

To that, the Dúnadan, as usual, made no answer. But for once, Faramir was not off-put by his companion's silence.

And that…that was ill-advised.

It was customary enough with the advent of winter for the men to sleep in one central room with the hearth blazing and pallets spread close together for warmth. After a long day's labor, he was happy enough to heave his body onto the pallet and sleep like the dead.

After the first night, the Dúnadan spread his bedroll beside Faramir's in the great hall. Neither made mention of the arrangement, but each successive night brought with it a rising tide of uneasiness Faramir dared not name, and dreams of scarlet desire in which a pair of wolf-grey eyes stared at him in silence.

He had felt such before. Before another ill-advised night in the port of Umbar that had left him bereft of both purse and dignity.

He had fought not to heed it, buried it so far down and deep that he thought he had been safe from its incessant call. Or maybe merely blind to it.

Real men hungered only for glory. Carnal interests were beneath a knight's notice. They made him pliant, weak.

That's what you are though, isn't it? That insidious voice, the one that always sounded like his father, whispered. You are not Boromir. You are not a true knight. Yes, you wear the colors and pay lip-service to the virtues. But ever your aim is otherwise…

Faramir ground the heels of his palms against his eyes as if he could forcibly eject that chiding voice.

"Something troubles you."

Faramir froze. For a half-second, he considered feigning sleep, but at last, he lowered his hands and glanced over at his companion. The Dúnadan was watching him intently.

"I…cannot sleep."

"Sometimes, the unburdening of a thought can make it lighter."

The low timbre in that voice, redolent with suggestion, pierced Faramir. Or perhaps he only heard what he wished to hear?

"And you?" He fought to swallow, but his throat had gone suddenly, unbearably dry. "What troubles your sleep?"

"I have no more desire for thought this night." He rolled over onto his side and lay still.

Faramir stared at that broad back just within arm's reach, stunned, terrified, and aroused.

With many a false start and stop, he mirrored the other's movement, rolling to his side. With the sensation as if he was tumbling back down the ridge, he eased a hand beneath the blanket, resting the very tips of his fingers on a narrow hip.

A twitch, a soft inhale.

His hand was not a part of him any longer. It was its own master, had its own mind and purpose as it burrowed deeper beneath the blanket, beneath the loose trousers the Dúnadan slept in and closed, at last, around warm flesh.

That soft stalk quickened in his hand, and the only language they spoke was that of urgency: the thud of a pulse, the tight clinch of an arm, the rhythmic rocking that crescendoed with expectation and strain for something just out of reach… just…

His breath rasping in an effort not to groan aloud with the others so close, Faramir buried his face in the crook of the man's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat, feeling the flex of his taut thighs, the breath he expelled an instant before his release.

Faramir tumbled helplessly after him, the sweet, crushed smell of heather and hay in his nostrils.

In the aftermath, they lay, half-tangled together, sweat and seed cooling on their bodies. The ticking itched against Faramir's damp sides.

Neither of them spoke but sometime before he drifted into sleep, he felt the Dúnadan clasp the hand draped loosely over his hip in a grip both remote and grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

The bedroll beside him was cold and empty when he woke, and the battlements were empty of their familiar, smoke-clad shape.

The weather was cold and foggy and brought no relief from tempers or disquiet. A feeling of thunder lingered in the air, and the men were quiet as they attended their gear and their training.

Wrapped in his cloak, Faramir cupped his hands around a cup of tea, sipping through his teeth though it scalded the inside of his mouth. He barely registered the runner until the boy skidded to a halt in front of him, drenched in sweat despite the chill of the air.

"There is a missive for you, sir, from the Lord Steward."

Faramir held out his hand mechanically for the pristine slip of parchment the runner handed him. "I sent word to the Warden of the White Tower, not the Steward."

He had written to his brother not long after his arrival in Cair Andros of the enemy presence across the river—and, after some deliberation, their visitor.

"Yes, sir," the runner hastily answered, turning white. "The Lord Steward said that the Warden was away on errantry—"

And none, not even his own sons, could deny the Steward.

"I understand, lad," Faramir said, more gently.

"I hope I have not done wrong, sir."

That remains to be seen.

"You did your duty. Go. Eat. Take some rest."

He slit the seal with his penknife and scanned his father's script, painstakingly sharp and slanted.

The reply was diplomatically cold.

The Warden of the White Tower would send as many as his captain required. However, recent incursions of the Enemy have required necessary reinforcements to be dispatched to strengthen the garrison at Osgiliath. When that threat is vanquished, the garrison may be sent north to the river.

On the matter of the interloper: the Lord Steward trusts the Captain of Cair Andros, who has been entrusted with its safety, to heed his own judgement (as he has in other matters) without the need to seek permission of brother or father whose ruling he has seen fit to ignore.

"Meaning I should have heeded your word and slain him, sight unseen," Faramir muttered and crumpled the parchment in his fist.

"Captain!" Malthen, one of his senior lieutenants, was summoning him, his expression grave. "It's Diriel's patrol, sir. There's been trouble."

They limped in by ones and twos, those that could walk. Between them, Anborn and Mablung bore Elboril on a litter, white as parchment and still save where he was scarlet with blood.

Diriel, incandescent with outrage, stalked just behind, her dagger unsheathed and bloody.

"They had warning, sir," his lieutenant spat at him, her garments fouled with gore. "They were waiting for us."

Her face, beneath its anger, was rigid with anguish and accusation.

Perhaps you should have been heeding your men rather than fucking your prisoner… that voice-that-was-not-his-father chided.

Conscious of the eyes of the men on him, he turned to Anborn and Mablung first, nodding at Elboril. "See to him."

"Diriel." Faramir recalled her eyes to his. "Go. Sit with him."

"They had warning," she repeated but hastened after the stretcher-bearers.

Malthen watched her go, running a rueful hand through his hair. "You mustn't heed her rough tongue, sir. Elboril's the first lad she's trained up and prouder of him than a mother bear of her cub."

"I noticed," Faramir said. "Tell me what happened."

"We were up north by the Dead Marshes. First night was quiet though one of the sentries — a young one — started at something. Said it looked like a spider, low to the ground and spare like that with gangly limbs. Says it hissed at him. But we couldn't find hide nor hair of anything. You know how the younger set get on watch too long. We were going to patrol up a ways then turn back before the brink of the marshes.

"Well, the orcs came on us hard. We gave as good as we got, but after Elboril took it in the gut, we hot-footed it for the river. Only just made it too."

"How many were they?"

"Hard to tell in the scramble, sir, but I'd say some two-score at least, and they were calling up more as they went."

Two-score of the enemy.

They would be outnumbered three to one. The half-decrepit keep would only offer so much protection over such numbers.

"And what is their position now?" His voice came out steadier than he could have hoped.

"They were hard on our heels. We slipped them in the dark in the fording of the river, but it won't take them but half a night to follow. I fear they are aware of how thin we are. They'll come for us, make no mistake."

"Yes." Faramir didn't know what else to say.

Heavy steps behind them made them turn. Anborn, wiping bloody hands on his cloak, emerged from an inner doorway. Wordlessly, he shook his head.

* * *

The midnight hour found the keep of Cair Andros asleep, save its captain.

His boots whispered against the grass as he walked to the point of the isle that protruded like the keel of a ship into the Anduin. The roar of the river was loudest here as it hurtled itself against the black rocks far below.

Elboril lay now in the bowels of the keep with his shield at his feet and his sword in his hand, a shroud blurring his youthful face.

Faramir cursed himself for a fool.

There was no footstep, no breath to give him away, but Faramir felt the weight of that grey gaze on the back of his neck.

"You were sought earlier," he said dully.

"I was on the other side of the isle looking for herbs to restock the inventory. I did not hear of the attack until…it was too late…I am sorry for your loss."

All his mind had gone icy and numb. He did not acknowledge the consolation.

The silences, the withdrawal, the disappearance — it all suggested the worst possibility. And if Cair Andros fell, its captain would be the cause of it.

"I have made my decision," Faramir said in the same, dull voice that sounded nothing like himself. "I should have made it days ago, and perhaps, Elboril might have been spared…Under the law of the Steward and the duty bestowed on me as captain of Cair Andros, I pronounce my judgement: that for the crimes of trespass and aiding and abetting the enemy of Gondor and her realms that your life is forfeit."

The knife hilt under his cloak was cold and slick with sweat. He felt very sick and did not draw the blade for fear it would betray his trembling.

The Dúnadan remained silent.

A sharp, hot spike shot through Faramir's chest. "Damn you! Still you will say nothing in your defense."

"What would you like to hear?"

"Tell me I am mistaken. Tell me I err."

"Tell you, you err in assuming I am a man worthy of death? I can. Though I am. Even if it's not for the deed you claim. I have done things, many things which I would be ashamed to speak of. They were necessary. But necessary deeds are not always the most palatable ones."

Faramir waited, pointedly did not ask.

The Dúnadan looked up at him, frank, almost defiant. "I stole a woman from her family. I abandoned my own. I have failed in my search for a creature whose very memory is evil and may yet do great harm to my friends and those I love… I have labored all my life for Gondor's good, and all I have brought to her and her people is division and mistrust and grief.

"If the end must come for me, I am glad it wears your face. You put me in mind of your father's father, the Lord Ecthelion. He was a wise man and slow to condemn a man on appearance alone. He trusted a Northman once. A stranger."

"My father has told me of Thorongil," Faramir said, unsure where this was going. "That he usurped the Steward's favor and fled after the battle of the Poros. My father always suspected that the corsairs must have bought him."

"And what do you think?"

"I do not know. Thorongil was a hero by many accounts."

A shard of moonlight splintered across the Dunedin's face as he took a single step towards Faramir. "I would ask only the chance to prove myself. Give me my sword. It may be broken, but it holds an edge. Let me prove it on the field of battle, at your side. Perhaps the enemy will then make the decision for you."

"You speak as one of the heroes of old," Faramir said in a tone of disbelief. But he let go the knife hilt. "I do not know whether I should trust you or no. It may be by doing so I will cause the death of the rest of my fellows. Or myself. But I cannot take your life. If you would fight beside us, then so be it. And let things fall as they may."


	4. Chapter 4

They departed Cair Andros before dawn. The wind was still, and the river smooth as a millpond but for the wake left by their boats.

Covering them in reeds, they stole up the banks and into the woods. They encamped above a little hollow and lit no fires. Few slept.

They could see the red lights of the enemy fires down below in a little hollow.

Faramir, on second watch, almost caught himself dozing on his feet, but a hiss made him start and leap to his feet.

Something dark and low to the ground - He thought it a strange and gangling orc.

Even as he started towards it with sword drawn, the thing hissed again and rustled away into the undergrowth, swift as an adder. Faramir pursued, but it was long gone.

At dawn, they stole down the slope, towards the sleeping enemy.

Someone kicked the moldering fire, and it went up in a stream of renewed smoke and ashes. After that, chaos.

Faramir felt the familiar quiver in his hands start up, his mind giving itself over to the remembered movement of swing - parry - thrust - lunge - slash - turn - never stop moving - never leave your back exposed - swing - clang - and round and round and round and round.

The Dúnadan never left his side, a sword a whirling, menacing hiss and slicing down every orc that barred his path.

They had the element of surprise, but the orcs were numerous and fought hard.

Malthen went down with a spear thrust while Diriel and two of her lads were backed into a corner. Faramir rushed to their aide with the Dúnadan at his side, and they scattered the enemy.

To the south, suddenly, a horn blared and rent the air with its echo: a high, clarion call Faramir knew oh, very well, indeed.

"Boromir."

The enemy knew the sound too, and demoralized, they broke and fled, leaving a full half their number lying on the field.

Faramir, breathing hard, straightened slowly and wiped his soiled blade on the edge of his cloak. They would return, but for today at least, Ithilien was cleansed.

He greeted his brother first then went to where the Dúnadan knelt in the middle of the field, his dark head bent low.

Faramir staggered to him, his nerves still singing and his sword hand aching with the ring and clash of battle.

"I am sorry I doubted you," he said. "I owe you my life. Again."

Thorongil turned a face the color of chalk to Faramir. He was ashen but for a tinge of brightest crimson in the corner of his lip. A black-fletched arrow protruded from his breast.

* * *

"Cyll!" Faramir bellowed over his shoulder, strident and fierce as it hadn't been in battle. "Bring a litter! Now!"

He tightened his grip, cradling the stricken Thorongil in his arms as they sank onto the green grass of the field.

Faramir waited until the man was nearly abreast of him before hailing him from the top of the battlements. "You should not be out of bed."

The Dúnadan, Thorongil, recovered his composure quickly enough and waved him a 'good morning.' "If I must lie abed any longer, I shall moulder into the very sheets. It is time I was going and past time."

Faramir had spotted the pack slung over the man's shoulder as he came down the steps. "You are leaving us?"

Thorongil shifted the pack higher on his shoulder. "I have put off my errand for far too long."

Faramir laid a hand over his heart then pressed just the tips of his fingers against the green tunic where the bandages were still thick beneath. But the heartbeat was strong.

"It is good to put a proper name to you at last, Thorongil."

Thorongil clasped his wrist. "I always rather liked 'Strider.'"

"'Strider?' A strange name, that."

"I have been told I am rather strange." Thorongil clapped him on the shoulder. "I owe you my life. I will not forget."

Faramir watched him as he passed through the gates and down the path until he was lost amidst the olive trees.

"Travel safe, Strider," he murmured. "Perhaps we will meet again."


End file.
